


Spinning Time

by Ciule



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Manipulation, Morally Grey Hermione Granger, No redemption, Oral Sex, Power Kink, Pregnancy, Rough Sex, Somnophilia, The Three Broomsticks (Harry Potter), Time Travel, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tomione 2020 fic gift exchange, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Vaginal Sex, Voldemort isn't nice, for Klawdee890, that goes both ways, though very slight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciule/pseuds/Ciule
Summary: “May I sit? There are no other seats available.” A tall man stood before her, cocking his head to indicate the chair Molly Weasley had vacated. He was definitely handsome, dressed in black robes, and she thought he might be about ten years older than herself, give or take a few years.Nodding, she waved her hand, pointing at the chair.  He sat down with a deep sigh, putting a tumbler and a bottle of smoking Firewhisky on the table.Raising her eyebrows at seeing an entire bottle, she asked: “Rough day?”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Comments: 352
Kudos: 552
Collections: Poisoned Kiss Under the Mistletoe Tomione Secret Santa 2020





	1. Spin

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for the Tomione 2020 fic exchange, and it's a gift fic for Klawdee890 (if you have a username on AO3, please tell me, and I'll add you). The prompt was older Hermione, time travel and angst. 
> 
> Sounds perfect, doesn't it? 
> 
> Happy New Year and happy birthday to You-Know-Who!

**1969**

* * *

The pub was packed, with barely a seat available, but Hermione knew exactly who she was looking for: A young, distraught redhead sitting slumped in a corner, tears rolling silently, as she clutched her tumbler of smoking Firewhisky. 

“Good evening,” Hermione said quietly. “I’m here to help you.” 

“Go away,” the woman said morosely, her pretty face red and swollen as she shook her head. 

Hermione shrugged. _She hadn’t gone back in time to fail her mission, now had she? Molly had sent her back to save her future marriage, and Hermione would deliver. She was, after all, the Department of Mysteries’ expert on Time related problems. Besides, she quite liked Molly, and she liked her even better after the woman had given up on the silly idea of Ron and Hermione as an item._

Sitting down, she said calmly. “I’m from the future. You sent me back to help you. I can tell you one thing: Arthur’s parents might be the greatest arses ever born, but he doesn’t deserve you dumping him because of them. Grow that backbone, and talk back. I know you can, I know the future you. Believe me, Arthur and you will be happy.” 

The girl in front of her gaped. “F-f-f-rom the f-f-f-uture?” she stuttered. 

“Yes. I’m Hermione Granger, and in forty-three years, you’ll be asking me to travel back in time to talk to you. Now, I’m here.” 

Molly’s generous bottom lip quivered, and she almost wailed: “You don’t know how horrible they are!” 

“Oh, I know. You told me all about it. The thing is, in two days, you and Arhur will confront them together. He’ll support you, stand by you, and you’ll tell your future inlaws that they can bugger off. You and your brothers aren’t Pure-blood fascists like they believe, even though your parents are. Arthur knows this, he trusts you.” 

The girl swallowed, taking a sip of her golden-reddish whisky. “Are you sure?” she said weakly. 

“Yes. You really tell them to bugger off.” 

Incredulous, Molly snickered, wiping her wet cheeks. “I really do?” 

“Yes. And you do it well. In fact, they’re never going to bother you again. They’re going to write you a letter of apology. Everything will be fine, Molly, if you just don’t break up with Arthur. Go on, go back to him, tell him how you feel.” 

Molly Prewett blinked, before she drained her tumbler, slamming it down on the table. “You’re right,” she said decisively. “You’re _fucking_ right. You’re an angel, you know. What was your name again?” 

“Hermione Granger. Don’t you forget it,” Hermione said. 

“I won’t,” Molly replied fervently over her shoulder as she walked away, her shoulders straightening, squaring into that dangerous tilt that Hermione recognized from the woman’s numerous outbursts. 

Hermione couldn’t help grinning. _There she was, the woman who wouldn’t take two Knuts to send the most awful Howlers to her children. Now Ron and the rest would be born safely. If only all her missions were this easy._

After Molly had walked out the door, she glanced around at the Three Broomsticks. _It was always fun to observe the people of the past. Maybe she should stay for a short while. 1969 might be an interesting year, for all she knew._

Leaving her coat over the chair, she joined the line at the bar to order a pint. People were happily chatting, though some eyed her robes. Having never opted for the gaudy colours most witches and wizards seemed to prefer, her own robes were somber, moss-green colour. Hermione rather thought it brought out the golden strands in her hair, but these people seemed to think she had dressed for a funeral. 

Returning to her table, she settled down to do more people-watching. It was one of the things she loved about her trips to the past: Listening in on what people talked about, their worries and their opinions. Someday, she’d write a history book: _‘Hermione Granger’s Comprehensive History of Wizarding Britain’._

Tonight, the pub was crowded, and the large room was hot, the fires roaring in the fireplace to ward off the chill from the cold March weather outside. The pleasant scent of meat pies and toast, mulled mead and spices filled the air, and people were sitting on all available chairs, standing around tables and leaning into walls. The topic of the day seemed to be a political scandal in the Ministry, where the Head of the Department of Magical Cooperation had been caught, having a secret liaison in his office with the French Ambassadeur, offering trade secrets for sex. 

“May I sit? There are no other seats available.” A tall man stood before her, cocking his head to indicate the chair Molly Weasley had vacated. He was definitely handsome, dressed in black robes, and she thought he might be about ten years older than herself, give or take a few years. 

Nodding, she waved her hand, pointing at the chair. 

He sat down with a deep sigh, putting a tumbler and a bottle of smoking Firewhisky on the table.

Raising her eyebrows at seeing an entire bottle, she asked: “Rough day?” 

He grunted, a frown marring his brow, before pouring himself a stiff drink. “You might say that. Actually, it was an _appallingly_ bad day. I didn’t get what I wanted.” 

“Oh.” 

Taking a sip, the deep frown on his face smoothing out, he said calmly: “I applied for a job. My dream job, so to speak, what I always wanted to do since I was a boy, and I was turned down _again_. Obviously, I’ll be doing something else with my life from now on.” 

Something niggled at the back of her brain, but she shoved it away, because not getting her dream job was something she could relate to. _Though, she wasn’t defeated yet. She’d be Minister one day. Maybe she should have believed Harry and Ron when they said it was too early in her career, instead of marinating in her own failure. Don’t be bitter, keep fighting,_ she told herself sternly _,_ though losing the election last year, in 2011, had been a humiliating defeat if there ever was one. 

The man in front of her shrugged. “I’ll opt for destroying the world instead,” he said lightly, arching one well-formed black eyebrow, making her laugh in surprise. _He wasn’t only handsome, he seemed to have a wicked sense of humour too._

“Cheers to that,” she said, clinking her pint to his tumbler, and he gave her a wry grin, which, to be frank, she found incredibly charming. 

“What do you do for a line of work?” he asked. 

“Can’t tell you,” she said, like the Unspeakables always did, and he nodded. 

“I see. Must be fun.” 

“It is,” she said seriously, “but it isn’t my dream job either.” 

“Magical discoveries are exciting, though,” he commented, looking half amused, half arrogant, like he didn’t think she would be any good. 

That riled her up, because she was well and truly done suffering older wizards believing themselves superior in magical knowledge. _If she was to be honest, she was the best. No one surpassed Hermione Granger, The Brightest Witch of Wizarding Britain._

“Absolutely. Time is my field of research, “ she replied with an arrogant toss of her head. 

“I’ve done some research myself,” he said, a small smile curling around his lips, eyes on his tumbler. “Mostly on life and death, though that’s a natural consequence of time.” 

“Usually, it is,” she agreed with a condescending smile of her own. “Though not always. There is one theory on prolonging life to make time irrelevant, though that always, inevitably, involves going back in time, not forward. However, it might only last until you reach your point of departure.” 

His eyes widened, respect suddenly dawning in his eyes. “You’ve researched Nasheegs’ theorem?” 

Surprised, she snapped her head around, lips parting. “You know the theory?” 

“I do, but I really don’t have any interest in going _back_ in time.” 

“I’ve never met anyone who has even heard of the theory,” she said wonderingly. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that there might be more to this wizard than just plain male arrogance. 

“Where did you find it?” he said curiously. “I thought it only existed in the original manuscript, and as far as I know, that belongs to a private library.” 

Hermione nodded. _Chances were, they’ve read the same manuscript, because she had found it at 12 Grimmauld Place, stuffed into a corner._

Deciding to challenge him, to see if he really was worth his salt or just another poseur, she posed her favourite research question: “So, do you support the theory of causal loops or no? And if so, what would that mean, if you were to apply Nasheegs theorem?” 

The man suddenly grinned broadly, like he was pleasantly surprised, white teeth flashing, before launching into a long argument. Quickly, it became clear that while she thought it prudent to uphold the rules of Time travel lest the world as they knew it unravelled, he was more inclined towards chaos, challenging the causality of Time travel. 

For a while, they argued animatedly about the theories, before moving on to other magical topics. She found him to be extremely knowledgeable, intelligent and sharp-witted, and she had never had such a stimulating conversation in her life. Her cheeks practically glowed with eagerness as they sparred, debated and challenged each other, him leaning forward, gesticulating as if he wanted to underscore his points. 

After half an hour, she decided that she _liked_ this man. 

He too seemed to be enjoying himself, and they liberally shared his bottle of Firewhisky between them. Late in the evening, after having talked their way through Time, Transfiguration, Potions and Arithmancy, he murmured: “I’m impressed.” 

Dark eyes looked at her, and suddenly, the air became charged. Hermione felt her heartbeat pick up. _He wasn’t only smart, but he was handsome too. For once, she had found a man on her own level of intelligence. Just the kind of man she’d like to…_ _  
_ _  
_ And then he said, looking serious: “Not many know so much as you do, not many can keep up with me. I’ve enjoyed this evening. You’ve even taught me a few things.” 

She felt her breath hitch, seeing the smoulder in his eyes, and he reached out his hand, taking hers across the table, caressing her lightly. 

Hermione replied softly: “Not many can keep up with me either.” 

_Having a one night stand with this man would be… fun,_ she realized. For a long time now, she had been single. First, because she was hard pressed to take time off from work, and second, because most wizards _weren’t_ up to par intellectually. Besides, her every attempt at a relationship was plastered on the front page of the Prophet before there even was a first kiss, and any attempt on discrete one-night-stands was at the risk of getting full press coverage too. _Here, in the past, no one would know. This was … perfect, really._

She gave him a small nod, signaling her consent, and he smiled at her, eyes glittering wickedly, before sauntering off to the bar, leaning in to talk to a young Madam Rosmerta, before returning with a key.

“Shall we,” he inquired silkily. 

Feeling a tingling in her belly, she rose, taking his hand - _warm, calloused and large -_ and they went upstairs. 

Xxxx

The door snicked shut behind them, and as she took in the cramped room - _large bed, tiny desk, a chair, the usual bed and breakfast amenities -_ his eyes roved over her body. 

He took a step closer, and she noted how tall he really was, almost dwarfing her. Slowly caressing her jaw line, he tipped her head up to look at him. _Those dark eyes… she could drown in them, couldn’t she?_ Her nipples hardened, standing out in anticipation, and dampness seeped into her knickers. 

“I like to be in control,” he said quietly, expectantly, and she swallowed. His fingers moved across her throat, sliding over her jugular, making her shudder in pleasure. 

“Yes.” Her consent was a whisper, but her heart hammered in her throat. _Most men expected her to be bossy in bed, taking it for granted that her approach to everyday life would transfer to her sex life too. But it wasn’t like that, not at all. This man seemed to have read her mind, or maybe he was just a good fit to her desires in every respect._

He gave her a little smirk, before taking a step back, crossing his arms across his broad chest, before uttering a command: “Undress!” 

Eagerly, she obeyed, unfastening her robes, folding them. He raised an eyebrow at her Muggle attire underneath, a plain black skirt and a white button-up shirt, though his eyes widened at the sight of her lacy underwear. His stance shifted slightly, like he needed to adjust himself, and his lips pursed. 

Unclasping her bra, she let it fall to the floor, before shimmying out of her knickers. 

Her soon-to-be lover swallowed, like his mouth was dry. “You look … so tempting,” he muttered hoarsely. 

Striking, quick as a snake, he grabbed her hips, turning her around, bending her over the small wooden desk. Her arse in the air, her sex exposed to him, one large hand clasping her arse cheek, she emitted a whining gasp. _No one had ever dared to do such a thing to her. And she liked it._

“Such a good little witch,” he mumbled, feeling her up, his fingers trailing down between her legs, exploring her soaked sex. 

“Dripping for me, aren’t you?” he continued, his voice almost a rasp, giving her a light slap, making her arse jiggle. 

“Yes, oh, please,” she groaned, wriggling to get his fingers on her sex, and his sinful chuckle made her heat up, tendrils of flames racing up, igniting something deep inside her belly. 

Those long, elegant fingers of his were now sliding through her folds, before reaching her nub, circling it, the light touch making her ache for something rougher. 

Holding her down by pinning her neck to the table, the constriction making her feel so wickedly, unexpectedly _free_ , having to give up control of her body to him, he methodically began to stroke her clit, rubbing her more firmly. 

Hermione panted, feeling as if she should burst, wanting - _no, needing -_ something inside her, to fill her up, arching her back as enticingly as she could, hoping that he’d get the hint, taking her from behind. 

“Such a wanton little witch,” he whispered, “so very naughty, so ready to be fucked hard, to have her little hole used by a man she knows next to nothing about.” 

“Gods yes,” she groaned, on the verge of orgasming, his fingers on her nub making her sex already tremble, needing just that tiny little nudge to come… 

… and then he stopped, dragging her up by the neck, before pushing her down to her knees. 

“Open up,” he demanded, and she was presented to an eyeful of a large, throbbing cock. The head was deeply red, the shaft almost reaching his navel, and the thick stem rose up proudly from a nest of black hairs. 

Obediently, she opened her mouth, letting him inside, and he thrust lightly, one hand firmly in her hair, holding her head still as he fucked her mouth. 

Hermione felt a surge of lust - _not entirely her own, she rather thought, as if his desire was projected to her, somehow -_ and she could barely keep still, squirming on the floor, her knees getting red and sore, using her tongue to glide over the thick cock filling her mouth. Almost gagging, as he once or twice pushed too far into her mouth, she felt the throbbing vein on the underside of the wide, flared mushroom head start to pulse. 

He pushed her back, before manhandling her up, throwing her facedown on the bed, before he almost growled: “Get down, arse in the air. Beg for it, witch, beg me!” 

“Please,” she whined, feeling so very needy, like she needed nothing more in life than this man’s cock inside her, “please fuck me!” 

“You can do better,” he grunted, slapping her arse again, _hard,_ and she twitched, as if the slap fired off nerve signals, telling her body to come. She was nearly there, and words spilled out of her mouth rapidly: “Please, sir, please, fuck me. Put your big cock inside me, stretch my wet hole, make me yours, take me, fill me up, please, I need it, sir!” 

“Very good,” he muttered, “say ‘Please, my Lord’.” 

“Please, my Lord, oh, please fuck me,” she panted, obeying his power kink, because it was her own too, to be commanded like this, to be told to beg for it, and… 

… her thoughts dispersed like mists, as the thick head speared her sopping folds, entering her, boring its way inside her, stretching her walls, filling her up. 

“Oh gods, yes, oh, Lord, please…” she muttered mindlessly, as he continued to press himself inside her. One hand came around her throat, pressing lightly on her windpipe, and she bucked her hips at him, and then there was no return: Hermione Granger came on this strangers cock, writing, whining and panting, as convulsions crashed through her pussy, squeezing the large cock inside her, clamping down on him, as waves hit her hard, making her see stars flashing behind her eyes, her eyes rolling back into darkness as her world trembled. 

The man above her grunted, hips pistoning into her, as wet, sloppy sounds filled the room, created by his thrusts into her soaked cunt, before he lost his rhythm, pumping into her erratically. With a muffled shout, he pulled out and came all over her arse with deep, drawn-out groans. The hot, sticky liquid splashed over her skin, trickling down the crack of her arse, sliding down towards her wet slit. 

He collapsed beside her, pulling her into an embrace, breathing heavily. 

Xxxx

Hermione dozed off in her afterglow as a strange dream emerged. Her whole life was rolling like a film in her head, from childhood, to Hogwarts, to the war and the years afterwards, the images slowly filtering past, some of them stopping, flickering for a moment, like they were more important than others. _It was strange, but then again, it was so warm, so comfortable inside the cocoon of his arms…_

Sometime later, a whisper of magic caressed her belly, making her wake up with a start, finding him already inside her as he rocked into her, fucking her awake. 

“I need this,” he mumbled, his voice so insistent, it was almost vehement, “touch your clit, witch, bring yourself off as I fuck you.” 

Obeying him again, she fingered herself, feeling pleasantly full, the large cock stroking her insides so deliciously, and with a heavy shudder, she came, feeling him spill himself inside her this time, groaning as if he was in pain. 

Turning around, she kissed his jaw, noting that he seemed to be very pale, almost like he was ill, or had just gotten a severe shock. Those dark eyes looked down at her, inscrutably, like he was pondering a mystery, and she nuzzled into his broad chest, her head almost fuzzy with spent desire. _Maybe she had worn him out too._ With a contented sigh, she dozed off again. 

  
  


Xxxx

**2012**

* * *

Three months later, she stood in front of the grand fireplace in the drawing room of 12 Grimmauld Place. The house looked cosy now, a place that was alive with baby toys scattered all over the floor, and everything looked clean and shiny. 

“So, I came back pregnant, and I’m keeping the baby,” she announced. Ron, Ginny and Harry gaped at her, Ginny clutching her husband’s hand, like she needed an anchor. 

“You went back in time, hooked up with some stranger and now you’re pregnant?” Harry said weakly, dragging a hand through his black hair. The two Weasley siblings were both staring at Hermione as if she had sprouted a second head. “Of all the things I’d thought you’d do, this was not it, Hermione.” 

Hermione shrugged, like she hadn’t had sleepless nights for a month before deciding what to do, as if this had been an _easy_ decision. The amount of fretting, of disbelief and angst she had experienced since she found out was no small matter. _Her career would be affected, she would have to work twice as hard to get the Wizarding world to accept a single Mum as their Minister. But she wanted this, a baby of her own, with a man who might have been everything she’d wished for, if he only had been born in the right decade._ “You know, I’m thirty-three, and let’s face it, I’m not going to end up in a steady relationship. Still, I would love to have a child.” 

“You don’t know anything about this wizard! He could be married!” Ron exclaimed, finally finding his voice, squinting at her. “He should do the right thing by you, even…” 

With a start, Ginny seemed to wake from her shocked stupor, and her familiar smirk lit up her pretty face. “Was he hot?” 

“Trust me, he was. Tall, dark and handsome,” Hermione chuckled, and the two witches shared a wicked little grin. Adding, she said: “He was also very smart. Knowledgeable. Actually, we talked mostly about magic, and he had some fascinating insights. I liked talking to him. Even if I don’t know anything about him, at least I know my baby’s father is an intelligent wizard.” 

Ron said decisively, slapping his thigh for emphasis: “We’ll find him, Hermione. Unless he died in the war, he should still be alive. 1969 isn’t that far back in time. You’ll see, we’ll find him. Though he must be old now, he can still make an honest witch out of you.”

He nodded, as if ensuring that Hermione wouldn’t be a single Mum was the most important thing about this affair, and Hermione shook her head in amusement. _Of all the Weasleys, Ron was the one who resembled Molly the most. His mother would say exactly the same thing when she found out._

Harry, however, frowned, looking uneasy. “You met a tall dark man, who’s just as smart as you, in Hogsmeade in 1969.” Shaking his head, he muttered: “I have a bad feeling about this.” 

“What do you mean?” Hermione said, just as something cold gripped her insides. _That niggling feeling - as if she had failed to remember something… Something important._

“I mean.... How did he look?” 

“We should have gotten that Pensieve,” Ginny said plaintively, pulling Harry’s sleeve, “you know the one I wanted to buy to keep the memories of our babies fresh. And to be frank, I’d like to see the man who got our Hermione this weak in her knees to make her forget her Contraception Charms.” 

“I was on the potion,” Hermione said dismissively, “it must have been faulty.” _Still, this had nagged her the whole time: That whispered spell that had woken her the second time, caressing her belly, had that been a Counter-Charm to the potion, or a Fertility Charm? Had he been actively trying to impregnate her?_

“What did he say about himself? There are always clues, even in the most mundane things,” Ron continued, the Auror in him still on the mission to find this man to make a respectable witch out of his best friend. 

“Hm, not much, really,” she mused. “Nothing, expect that he had a shitty day, having not gotten the job he wanted.” 

Harry’s frown deepened. “Describe him. In detail.” 

“Please do,” Ginny said, still grinning. “I’d like an explicit account on his looks. Please, feel free to start with his…” she wriggled her eyebrows, making Ron groan. 

“Gin, you’re still hopeless. How long have you been married? You act like a … teenager!” 

But Hermione could tell, Harry was genuinely worried about something. Peering at them, she said speculatively: “Don’t tell anyone, because this is very much experimental, but we’ve been working on projecting thoughts, reminiscent of the way Muggles can project images on a screen, you know.” Harry nodded, though Ron and Ginny looked confused. 

Bringing out her wand, she focused, gathering her thoughts, fixing the memory of him as he stood before her in the pub firmly in her head. Slashing her wand out in a complicated, spiraling movement, she muttered: “ _Proijectus!”_

In front of them, a pale apparition came into being, and her tall, handsome lover from the pub stood in front of them. 

Harry paled, sucking in his breath harshly. “It’s him,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “It’s Voldemort! I recognize him from those Pensieve memories!” 

There was a rushing sound in her ears, drowning out the clamour from the others. _Of course, who else was smart enough, who else could spellbind her so with his intelligence? And to think, she had liked the man! Though, she’d never seen any images of how he looked before the resurrection, so how could she’d ever recognized him? As far as she knew, there were no portraits or photographs of him as an adult. She couldn’t have known, there was no way…_

From far off, she heard the others jabbing about what a scandal it would be, as all magical births were registered with the names of the mother and the father, all births inevitably being announced in the Prophet, and the newsrag always saw fit to publish large pics of any celebrities having a baby. 

"It's going to be the headlines and on the frontpages for days!" Ginny shouted, while Harry muttered: "Years, I'd say." 

_"_ “What will people say?” Ron shrieked on the verge of hysterics. “It’ll ruin Hermione's life!” 

Ginny snorted, insisting that this would be the final straw to the Prophet’s credibility, as no one would ever believe this, seeing as Voldemort was dead. Harry muttered something about the rise of a new Slytherin’s Heir, and “who knew what his child might be up to?” 

Hermione sat still, feeling her anger bubble inside, like a rising pool of bubbling lava, like an eruption was imminent. _He must have planned that, rifling through her head, ensuring that she’d become pregnant, giving himself an heir, seeing as he’d be dead. Causal loops be damned, she was of a mind to rearrange his face, using a few of her more savage spells on that blasted man, and to think, she had agreed to call him Lord in bed! How he must have enjoyed that, the sick bastard! And fuck it all, Lord Voldemort had tricked her, ensuring the survival of his line, far beyond his own death!_

She stood up abruptly, making the others fall quiet, watching her with a worried pity that made her _sick_ to the stomach. 

Harry said softly: “Hermione, you didn’t know. No one blames you, we’ll help you, I promise….” 

Nodding, she pinched her lips together. _Oh, they would, she trusted them, but first… She needed to punish the man who’d done this to her._

With shaking hands, she ripped her personal Time-Turner out of her shirt, trembling with fury and said: “He’s going to pay for this.” Letting her rage rise like a blinding sheet of light inside her, consuming her, she spun the golden artifact quickly, expertly. 

Xxxx

“No, Hermione, he’ll kill you!” Harry shouted, but the three of them could only watch in shock, as one vindictive, angry, pregnant and powerful Unspeakable shimmered in front of them, and disappeared. 

Then Ron whispered, shaken and pale: “If she kills him, maybe you wouldn’t have to, Harry. Either way, it’s going to change the futu…” 

The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, as the three of them slowly faded away. 


	2. Whirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, she had a hunch that she had wrought an actual change in the timeline, right here and now, and the consequences might be dire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with another chapter! 
> 
> It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Ciule can't write oneshots, lol. 
> 
> I still don't know how long this will be.

The whirl of broken time spun around her, faster, faster, her body dissolving into mist and atoms, pain screeching through her bones like she was splitting apart, the icy maelstrom filled with debris and and endless death buffeting her, beating against her, pulling her into infinitesimal pieces, building up in a crescendo to the point of destruction. 

As she reached the breaking point, she flung out the spell protecting her against the ravages of time - _her own design, painstakingly researched but well-tried by now:_ _“Concustodio!”_

The warming flames shot out of her, encapsulating her, preserving her against the terror of Un-Time, the nothingness of unravelling, checking the forces of destruction, landing her safely in 12 Grimmauld Place in 1969. 

She stumbled as she materialized, a toy train trapping her feet, and she fell forward, her hands grabbing hold of a low coffee table in front of her, stopping her descent. 

Pushing up quickly, hands aching from the impact of hitting the table, she took in the scene around her. A woman - _yes, it was no one but Walburga Black, so like her future portrait -_ book in hand, sat on the sofa, mouth open in shock, and two small boys rose slowly from the floor, their playtime interrupted by her arrival. 

“How did you get past our apparition wards?!” A big, burly man jumped up from a chair, wand in hand, brandishing it threateningly. 

But she wouldn’t have it - _none of it, the Blacks of 1969 could rot in hell -_ flinging out a Stunner of her own, making him snap into rigidity, falling on the floor face first. 

The smallest boy cried out, running to his mother, while his brother scrambled over to shake his Dad, trying to wake him up. 

“Mummy!” the smallest boy wailed. “The lady Stunned Daddy! Make her go away!” 

Walburga’s hands shook, rifling through her sleeve for her wand, but Hermione snarled: “No, you don’t! _Expelliarmus!_ ” 

Walburga’s wand flew out, smacking into Hermione’s outstretched hand, and the older boy too ran to his mother, clinging to her for safety, the small one burying his face in her chest, while the biggest one stared at her with dark eyes underneath a head full of dark curls. 

Hermione swallowed. _Sirius. A nine year old Sirius and his smaller brother. No child should see their parents overcome by an intruder in their home, but… these adults were a part of the Black family, vile Death Eaters, evil and despicable. Walburga and Orion deserved no mercy. Besides, they might have information. And Walburga … the way her portrait had acted up … calling names, deriding Muggleborns, yelling and shouting…. She was a bastard, wasn’t she!_

“Sit still!” she barked, and the two boys stiffened, tears trailing down their tiny faces. 

“What do you want?” Walburga snarled, showing bravery despite the fact that she was disarmed and frightened. Her pretty face was ashen, large green eyes locked on Hermione, but she sheltered her sons, curling her arms protectively around them. 

Though she would have loved to hex the woman, telling her what a sad little facist she was, Hermione found that she couldn’t - not in front of the tear streaked, terrified faces of the two small boys. 

Instead, she took a step forward: “Where does Voldemort live?” she gritted out. 

Walburga’s face worked comically, like she couldn’t _believe_ the question, but as Hermione took another step forward, she breathed out: “Diagon Alley, upstairs from Obscurus’ books. Third floor, I think.” 

“Fine,” Hermione muttered, feeling shame burning through her for scaring children like this. 

Throwing Walburga’s wand to the floor, she bolted downstairs, making herself scarce before the two adult Blacks could get ready to attack her. Apparating from the steps just outside the front door, she knew that the faces of the two terrified boys would stay with her for a long time. 

Xxxx

Standing outside in the darkening street, she glanced up to the upper floors of the building where Voldemort lived. The Obscurus publishing house occupied the ground floor and the first, the house a ramshackle thing leaning heavily to the right. The walls seemed like it dearly needed a new coat of green paint, and the roof was sagging, tiles missing in places. Though by now, Hermione knew there was no correlation between the insides and the outsides of wizarding houses. The owners could easily have Charmed it to look like this for tax reasons. 

_Well, no one was at home on the upper floors anyway_. Being a sceptic, she hadn’t trusted the lack of lights from the windows, but her _Homenum Revelio_ hadn’t shown anyone above the first floor. _Not even Voldemort would escape her notice with this spell._

Briefly, she wondered if she was too sure of herself. He was, after all, _Voldemort_ , and he was prone to have a few tricks up his sleeve. Arguing with herself, she came to the conclusion that by 1969, he wasn’t in need of hiding yet, so why should he go to great lengths to hide his whereabouts? _That need would arise later, by the onset of the First Wizarding War_ , she deducted. 

Shrugging, she also took note of the fact that she might need some time to track him down. _He could be anywhere, doing Merlin knew what at the moment. And she had rushed back in time, having left without anything but her wand and her handbag. She’d need more money, but then again, she had a foolproof plan._

Grinning to herself, she headed for the Ministry. 

Xxxx

Confidently, she had sauntered right into the heart of the Ministry, namely to the Department of Mysteries, to find her new boss. 

“What, but … how?” The very surprised Department Head stared at her, mouth gaping. He was an older, balding man by the name Jeremy Bulstrode, probably a relative of Millicent. _Luckily, he didn’t seem to be any smarter than his descendant._

The Head’s office was much like before: Dark, circular walls with a ceiling spelled to show the constellations, and with a surprising lack of books and scrolls. _As if the Heads thought themselves beyond knowledge and research. No wonder they were fools: They probably got their positions because of their blood status instead of hard work._

“I said,” she said none too patiently, “I am an employee from the future. That’s how I got the clearance to enter, and I’m on a mission.” 

Carefully, she omitted the fact that she had prepared for this sort of thing years ago, going back into the Ministry far, far back in time, giving herself a clearance to enter at _any_ time. Effectively, she had built herself into the Ministry wards, and she was damned proud of that piece of magic too. _Not many would be able to do that feat after her. It had proven useful too in her work, because having access to Ministry ledgers and documents that had become lost with time had helped her solve a lot of questions in her line of work._

Bulstrode blinked, his mouth working soundlessly. He leaned forward, putting his arms down on his desk, and the wide cuffs of his yellow robes trailed over the wet ink on the parchment he had been working on, staining the fabric. 

Hermione tapped her feet. “Well,” she asked. “I’m still on a mission, I am a Ministry employee of the Time Office, and you need to give me my salary. The mission is, _of course_ , top secret. I can’t divulge anything, or else I’m breaking the rules of time.” 

“But…” he said weakly, “I can’t just … open the Ministry’s coffers like this, for a stranger, I can’t prove if this is true or not… The audit … If it’s ever noticed, I wouldn’t be able to explain, and…” 

“Merlin,” she snapped. “You know as well as I do, the Mysteries _aren’t_ subject to the Ministry audit. It would defy the purpose of the Department!” 

“We aren’t? That must be something you do in the future...” he said, incredulously. Then he brightened. “That’s a splendid idea, Miss…” 

“Granger,” she supplied haughtily, hiding her uneasiness by providing her real name, but she wouldn’t be able to get into Gringotts by a fake name. _Still, this mission was unauthorized, so … she wouldn’t want any trouble in the future for squandering Ministry Galleons. It was a bit on the grey side, but she figured, anything that had to do with punishing Voldemort would be glossed over anyway. She would be able to explain, when she was safely back in her own time._

“Really splendid,” the man said, the bureaucrat in him perking up. “If you would be so kind as to tell me the exact reasoning behind this, Miss, because this will make our work so much easier. We will be independent, doing _more_ advanced research, with no one being able to scrutinize our priorities. If only for this, you deserve whatever salary you demand!” 

Her mouth half-open, she stared at the man. _Had she just laid the foundations for the Department as she knew it? This… this would be a proof for causality!_ Grinning, she cleared her throat. “Listen,” she began, “it works like this…” 

Xxxx 

Having found herself a flat, she was in a perfect position to spy on Voldemort. Fittingly enough, her flat was situated in the loft above Whizz Hard Books, the competing publishing house mirroring Obscurus, situated just across the street. _She wouldn’t take down Voldemort by simply barging in. He was too clever for that, and too powerful too. It would have to be an ambush._

Her stomach rumbling, she decided to eat out for lunch and dinner. She didn’t plan on staying long in the past, and for eating at home, tea and toast would do just fine for breakfast. Ever practical, she didn’t think it worth the effort to stock up on food for cooking dinner. 

Her advance salary from the Mysteries seemed to be sufficient for her needs, and she couldn’t help being pleased with how she had bullied her way in - and her unexpected proof of the causality of time. _Changing the rules at the Ministry like this - it was a causal loop, that’s what it was! It happened because it had happened._

Grinning to herself, she knew Voldemort would get his due when she found him, and no one would be the wiser in the future _. So far, her plan worked._

Xxxx

With increasing impatience, she waited for three mindlessly boring days, keeping watch over his flat. Voldemort was obviously away, and his windows were dark and empty. Only leaving her flat for short meal breaks, she hoped he hadn’t gone abroad on a longer trip. 

Hurrying back after lunch, she suddenly stopped short, seeing a familiar face. 

A tall, grim-looking dark-haired man dragged a scrawny, pale woman along, her face anguished, and a small boy ran after the two of them, dressed in shabby, second-hand clothes. The boy was much too thin, his face too pale, but his eyes were as dark as ever, like they had seen too much for his age. 

Hermione swallowed. _Severus Snape - future war hero, and very, very dead - was now a boy of nine years old. She hadn’t liked him much alive, but when his true loyalty was revealed, she couldn’t help admiring him for his dedication to a cause. And Harry had told her and Ron about what he had gleaned from Snape’s background, and it was clear - his father was **not** a good man. _

“Come on, you bitch,” the man groused, pulling hard on the arm of the woman, and Hermione spotted purplish bruises creeping up underneath her sleeve. “If you lot weren’t so damned stupid, I’d change your money into real pounds, setting it on my account. This wand business is so stupid, a man should be able to retrieve his money from the bank without a wand. If this was a proper bank, they wouldn’t allow _you_ or _any_ woman near the money.” 

“I’m sorry, Tobias,” the woman piped up, “I really am. It’s like that among wizards too, the man usually controls the money, but you know, you’d need a wand…” 

Not stopping a beat, he slapped her across the face, her head reeling, and the boy cried out: “Mum! No Dad, leave her alone!” 

“Shut up, boy, or you’ll get a trashing when we get home too,” the man snarled, brandishing a large fist towards the child. The woman cowered, sniffling, as she felt up the red mark on her face with a shaking hand. 

_Gods, if Snape’s father acted like this in public, what kind of monster was he behind closed doors? This was … unacceptable!_ Anger rising, Hermione stepped into their path without thinking, raising her wand to the man: “ _Obliviate!”_

The tip of her wand lit up, the blinding white light raced forward, crashing into the mind of Tobias Snape. 

He stopped, blinked in confusion, and promptly turned around, lumbering away without saying a word. 

“Tobias!" the woman shrieked, running after him, but he didn’t listen, walking away like he hadn’t heard her, merely swatting her away, while she tugged pitifully at his sleeve. 

“What did you do?” the small boy said, looking curiously at Hermione. “What kind of spell was that?” 

“I sent him home,” she said slowly, meeting the boy’s eyes. “He won’t remember you or your Mum anymore. He won’t bother you either. You’d better take care of your mother, she’s going to need your help.” 

“Oh, I always do,” the boy said tonelessly. “That’s what I do, I protect her. I always will.” 

The young version of her stern Professor nodded to her, before running after his mother. Eileen Snape stood still in the middle of the street, staring after her husband who walked unconcernedly away.

And suddenly, Hermione couldn’t help feeling uneasy. _This - it was a natural thing, the right thing to do, saving a woman and a child from abuse, courtesy of her bleeding heart - but had she unintentionally wrecked the timeline? Or had this event always been a part of Snape’s past, due to the causality of time? Somehow, she had a hunch that she had wrought an actual change, right here, and the consequences might be dire._

  
  
  


Xxxx

Breathing heavily, he looked down at the pebble at his feet. The Transfiguration work was perfect, really, and no one would ever guess that here lay the remains of one Natalie Yorkins. _The one who got the job. The Blood-traitor scum that Dumbledore had hired for the Defense position at Hogwarts. Funny, then - he had just proved that the witch wasn’t_ **_that_ ** _proficient when defending herself against the Dark Arts._

The fight had been fairly short, before she had crumpled under his Transmogrifian Curse. Dying had taken a long time, and in the end, she had looked nothing like a human, merely like a … _lump_ … of something hideous, writhing, squealing on the ground, grinding into the dead, yellow wintery grass of her small garden.

Voldemort shook his head, before smiling grimly. _She’d only be the first in a long line of victims. No one would hold that position at Hogwarts for long, because he had found just the right Curse for his revenge. The Malum Infortunitas would settle, maiming, killing or causing whoever held the position to leave due to sheer unluckiness, unhappiness or even calamities. No one was better than him, and no one deserved to have the job that had always been marked for HIM. He would have his revenge on each and every one of them._

“Good luck with recruiting over the years, Dumbledore,” he muttered, feeling at least a _little_ vindicated. 

Kicking the pebble, he turned on the spot, Apparating soundlessly to his flat, his wards welcoming him home with a warming tingle. 

Now, after hunting down the woman and setting the curse, he’d have to solve the rest of his life, deciding if he’d aim for disruption or compliance to the laws of time. _Knowing himself, his choice would be easy._

Xxxx

  
  


Shrugging her robe over her shoulders, she took the long walk from the North End to the Leaky at the South End of Diagon Alley. The November weather was cold with a slight drizzle, making her long for the warm March weather she had left in her future. 

The pregnancy made her much hungrier than usual, and she really looked forward to a hearthy meal, filling up what felt like an empty, gnawing pit in her stomach. She slept a lot more too, going to bed early, setting wards in the street that would wake her with a gentle chime if anyone approached the Obscurus building. _There was something wrong with her temper too. She was more angry and more easily frustrated than she usually was, like the pregnancy hormones made her mood go haywire, reacting too strongly without thinking, like she had done when meeting Severus Snape and his family. Well, food seemed to be the best solution to make her mood more stable._

Passing by the entrance to Knockturn Alley, she wondered how Voldemort made himself a living these days, but she supposed he might still be affiliated with Borgin and Burkes, or he could be some sort of a consultant for dark magic. _Or maybe he merely leached off his rich Pure-blood followers for all she knew. Though, he had been looking for work at Hogwarts, hadn’t he? Obviously, he would need some kind of job to feed himself and pay his rent. Maybe the reason for his absence was hunting for a job, or completing a mission._

Xxxx

“So,” Abraxas said with a bemused expression, “you met someone from the _future_ , is that right, my Lord? And it was a pretty, intelligent witch that actually … _intrigued_ ... you?” 

Voldemort laid his knife and fork down, having cleared his plate of the delicious lamb stew. His second pint was still half full, but tonight, he felt like drinking. 

“Yes,” he responded. His long time follower clearly didn’t see the magnitude, but Voldemort was _not_ about to tell him the extent of the travesty he had seen in the witch’s mind. “Her memories showed me a world where … things had gone … not as we expect, and…” 

Abraxas shrugged carelessly, a small smile on his face, like he was privately amused. “My Lord, things seldom do. There are always changes, sometimes little things, sometimes bigger things. Now you know how to avoid those things, don’t you? Change the future, my Lord.” 

“Well, yes, obviously I will,” Voldemort said, hiding the sense of unease that had plagued him since he met her. _The witch had presented a compelling argument for causal loops. If she was right, it meant that nothing Voldemort could do would change the fact that he’d die, it would be inevitable. Still, he would take his chance on chaos, actively trying to change events._

“I mean,” Abraxas said, still with that infuriatingly smug grin, “it was bound to happen one day. Though from the future…? I mean, you would never do anything the ordinary way, now would you, my Lord?” 

Voldemort blinked, because for once, he was at a loss. _What on earth did Abraxas mean? It was like they were having two different conversations. Voldemort was talking about how he’d arrange his future, while Abraxas …_

Furrowing his brow, he peered at the other man. _Surely, he didn’t mean…? That would be ridiculous!_

“I think you know me better than that!!” he snapped, leaning forward, making the other man pale. 

  
  


Xxxx

The Leaky Cauldron was filled with patrons, cheerful people having dinner or a pint, and as she looked around for a table she spotted _him_ in a corner, gesticulating with his fork and knife to someone that looked suspiciously like an older version of Draco Malfoy. 

Feeling rage rise again, taking over, like everything was suddenly to hot and her vision red-tinted, she pushed through the crowd, striding over to his table, her wand bristling. Wizards and witches alike raised their eyebrows at her, scuttling away from what could prove to be a very unpleasant business, though several looked curious, stretching their necks. _Ambush be damned! He was here, and she’d make him pay!_

“You!” she screeched, shooting a violent _Reducto_ at him, blasting Voldemort off his chair, wanting - _no, needing_ \- to destroy his much-too handsome face. 

He hit the floor with a very satisfying crunch, landing on his back, head thumping into the wooden floor, and she dearly hoped he had - _at the very least_ \- broken a bone. _Or maybe he got a severe concussion._ _  
__  
_With a malicious grin, she took a step forward, jabbing her wand decisively towards Voldemort - _her enemy, the man who had tricked her into believing he was someone she could be attracted to._

  
  


Xxxx

Voldemort forced his eyes open, lights flashing behind his eyelids, trying to clear his head from the ringing noise in his ears. His head and back ached from hitting the floor. _Pain was, as usual, merely a distraction for his body_ , _but his mind quickly caught up._

Almost automatically, honed reflexes kicking in after years of duelling, he rolled aside as a new volley of dangerous spells was hurled against him, shattering the wooden floor where he had laid just a second ago. 

“ _Protego Maxima!”_ he shouted, fumbling for his wand, though his Shield sprang wandlessly to life, humming slightly, a shimmering heat wave blocking the space between him and the enraged witch, her next spells sliding along his Shield, crashing into the walls behind him. 

Breathing heavily, he crouched, springing up, wand pointed in the direction of the woman. _If she thought she could duel Lord Voldemort, she’d be wrong…_

 _...oh, it was_ **_her_** _._ His mouth thinned. _That intriguing little morsel from the future, the enemy he had impregnated. She had found out who he was then, and … he had obviously underestimated her vengefulness._

All his instincts told him to destroy her, his pride wounded by the fact that the _entire_ Leaky Cauldron had seen him blasted off his chair, sprawled undignified on the dirty floor. _Though, this was as public an occasion as there would ever be, questions would be asked if he maimed or killed her and … the damned woman carried his heir._

Barely getting the words out between tightly compressed lips, he gritted: “I’m not going to harm you. Calm down, witch! Stop this nonsense immediately!” 

The pub was deadly silent, everyone staring, people standing on their chairs to get a better look. The witch breathed harshly through her nose, but so did he. 

Then she snarled, raising her wand once more: “I’m not done with _you_ yet!” 

Voldemort couldn’t help smirking. “Back for more?” he asked tauntingly, and the witch positively screeched in return. 

“You fucking bastard! Impregnating me without my consent - you _knew_ \- you devil! I’m going to make sure we kill you _again,_ and this time, I’ll do the honours myself!” 

Her chest was heaving, brown eyes blazing, and her hair crackled with lightning sparks shooting from the tips. And suddenly, Voldemort wondered how powerful she actually was. _He already knew she was wickedly smart, having been the brain behind his downfall in the future, laying the grounds for his ultimate defeat, and now, he could gauge that she was very much a strong witch too. Still, rage had never made anyone smarter, and as long as she was this angry, she wouldn’t be entirely rational. He’d better keep her unhinged._

“Darling,” he tutted, shaking his head, “surely this can’t be good for the baby.” 

From the corner of his eye, he noted Abraxas stared at him, mouth open, eyes horrified, before he turned to peer at the witch with a very curious expression on his narrow face. 

“For the baby?! _For the_ **_baby_ **?! As if you care one jot about my baby, you absolute nightmare!” She slashed her wand, sending something grey and obviously deadly towards him, and the impact on his Shield made him grunt, before the spell dissipated, spreading a noxious fume, making him cough. 

“Stop it!” he snarled, feeling almost powerless - _helpless_ \- without the ability to truly retaliate by magic. _How did one stop a raging witch, if one wasn’t supposed to Curse her? Manhandling her like a Muggle?_

“Stop it,” she muttered dangerously, eyes flashing, “ _stop it_ ? As if you have ever served anyone but yourself. As if this pregnancy wasn’t something you did to punish me, forcing it on me against my will! I’d never touched you willingly if I had _known_!” 

With a hoarse yell, she threw another Curse at him, aiming upwards for his head, and he stepped smoothly aside, letting the dire red lightning bolt whistle by his shoulder, crashing into the roof, causing cracks in the heavy timber roof over their heads. 

“Hey” the barkeep shouted, waddling towards them with a raised fist, “you two keep your quarrels outside! I won’t have my establishment destroyed by a lover’s squabble! Keep it civil, or I'll invoke the Premise Wards!” 

People were starting to mutter, but then Abraxas said urgently, his long face grave: “My Lord - **_Tom_** ,” - _and by that, he knew it had to be important, because Abraxas wasn’t one to forget himself, using his old name_ \- “if she’s pregnant by you, there’s only one option _now_.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, Abraxas mouthed: “You know, the _Act of 1632_ , it doesn’t matter what she says.” He nodded, indicating the very public scene, but Voldemort felt like laughing. 

_Merlin, Abraxas was such a prude. As if Lord Voldemort would ever worry about doing the so-called right thing, though Abraxas probably thought this to be a public scandal. The Malfoys were so proper, so conventional, setting so much store by the norms of society, it was almost silly._

Then Voldemort stilled, cocking his head, looking at the furious woman in front of him. The rage in her eyes caused a small jolt to his groin, remembering how passionate she had been, how she had moaned as he took her. _A pretty witch, even though she was a Mudblood, with an intelligence that maybe even matched his own, and she obviously wasn’t bothered much by breaking the rules. His enemy, whom he could force to **submit** , whom he had tricked into carrying his heir to make sure Slytherin’s line - his _ **_own_ ** _line - survived._

Silkily, he said: “Or maybe… maybe you’re right, Abraxas. I _should_ do the right thing.” _Though it would be a nuisance - this had possibilities, hadn’t it? The witch would be tied up even more if he… Oh, what a sweet, sweet revenge._

He raised his hand, and the woman glared at him, muttering: “As if I’d let you do a speech, you arse…! We know how much you love the sound of your own voice, you narcissist.” 

For a few agonizing seconds, he fought to cast off her surprisingly strong Silencing spell. Victorious, he shrugged, eyes glittering maliciously at her, before declaring loudly, making sure his voice rang out in the packed pub: “I, Tom Riddle jr. Lord Voldemort, hereby declare that I take full responsibility for Hermione Jean Granger being with child. By this, I make her an honourable woman. Effectively, she’s now my intended _wife_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, do you still want more? *grins* 
> 
> As for the Snapes: I looked up women’s rights in England in the sixties. In 1964, there was a Married Women's Property Act revision, which ‘allowed’ a woman to “keep half of any savings they'd made from the allowance paid to them by their husbands.” This was actually an improvement. I mean, oh sweet Lord…! 
> 
> The past was a bleak place for women, not doubt about that! 
> 
> Source: https://www.bl.uk/sisterhood/timeline#


	3. Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still she taunted him: “I had no idea you were so attached to using Muggle tactics. Physical force, you know, instead of the more elegant magical solutions. Your upbringing really shines through, doesn’t it? Did you learn this behaviour from your father’s family or in that orphanage?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took few weeks, but here it is. I hope you enjoy!

Hermione’s eyes grew big, and there was a hollow, rushing sound to her ears as something - _a spell, a magical promise, she didn’t know what, exactly -_ settled underneath her skin, making her tingle with a passing burn, though it was pleasant even, like this was a gift of something precious. For a brief moment, she swayed on her feet, feeling drunk on magic, drunk on power, like she had connected to something - _someone_ \- on an unexpected level. _Yes, Voldemort had put real power behind those simple words. It hadn’t sounded like a spell, but it was - she just knew it._

Facing her, Voldemort obviously felt the same, his eyes widening a fraction as the spell settled with a sigh, his mouth opening slightly, a small sigh escaping him, like he _relished_ the power rush. 

The sounds from the pub came back, rushing in as if to fill a void, and she realized, around them, people were cheering, toasting them. 

“That’s it, good boy, doing the right thing by his witch!” a burly wizard shouted, brandishing his goblet with a fist the size of hams, and a tiny, black-haired witch yelled: “Good for you, girl, showing your wizard that he can’t get away with it!” 

The man in front of her, however, was _nothing_ like a good boy. He looked flushed, angry even, but his dark eyes sparkled maliciously.

His ferrety friend, on the other hand, looked positively thunderstruck, hands twitching like he had received a terrible shock, pale mouth gaping, revealing teeth that were a _tad_ too pointed, like he had Transformed one too many times into an actual ferret. 

But Hermione only had eyes for Voldemort. “Intended _wife_?” she gritted out, taking a step forward. On the inside, an explosion was imminent: Big, ugly globs of rage, lava-like, rose from her core, waiting to spew forth from the conduit of her magical power, to lash out at the horrible, _horrible_ man in front of her, who had not only inflicted a pregnancy on her, but also apparently a sort of marriage vow, all without her consent, aiming to bind her tight, for the rest of her _life_ , to the most evil wizard in Britain. 

Her rage had almost reached its boiling point and the tip of her wand had lit up with a sinister red glow, when she noted how closely he observed her with a sort fascinated amusement, like he _wanted_ her to attack him. 

Clamping down firmly, she knew this _wasn’t_ the way to do it. _She wouldn’t win over Lord Voldemort when she was this enraged. She had to be cool and collected, she needed to be smart about this._ As she forced herself to calm down, taking deep, calming breaths to quench the burning rage, it was clear Voldemort picked up on her mood shift. Something told her, maybe the slight shifting of his feet, that he became _nervous_. 

Then his eyes hardened, and… 

… the sudden, silent _Imperio_ hit her hard, much harder than any attempts at the Imperius she ever had experienced before, and for a brief moment, she reeled with a ringing noise in her head, feeling the overwhelming need to _obey_ , to _serve_ him, to _cater_ to his every wish, to _please_ her Lord, to _satisfy_ him...

Almost snorting, she knew how to counter such things. 

Fighting it, forcing herself to resist, using the cinders of her rage to battle his spell, she flung out the counter spell of her own making, hitting back equally hard.

 _The spell was a secret, created last year after one of her opponents in the election had successfully cursed her at a meeting, causing her to agree publicly in the Wizengamot to the frankly humiliating idea of continued Elvish slavery_ . _Hermione had always thought that incident to be the true cause of her loss, her supporters disappointed that she inexplicably had caved in to such a deal, and she had vowed to never let herself be trapped like that again. Thus, she had found a workable solution to the Imperius, and she was proud of her achievement._

The counter-curse hit Voldemort like a ton of bricks, and he flinched visibly, just as if she had kneed him in the groin and stomped on his genitals - hard. _Her spell wasn’t as much a counter as a form of attack, following the Imperius back to its caster, piercing and cutting her enemy’s magic in a very painful way, severing their control of the Imperius in quite a brutal fashion._

Cocking an eyebrow at him - _daring him to continue using Unforgivables in public -_ she saw the momentarily defeat in his eyes: _He wouldn’t be able to subdue her with magic: Not now, not in public, if he wanted to retain a semblance of normality, keeping his reputation undamaged for the time being._

Then his face smoothed, morphing into an expression of concern, and he stepped forward, looming over her. To her surprise, he said smoothly: “Come on, love, let’s get you home. You must be so very tired after this.” 

Using his size and physical strength to his advantage, he pushed her around, tucking her wand arm safely underneath his with a firm, strong grip. But Hermione couldn’t help grinning maliciously: _She knew - just_ **_knew_ ** _\- that Lord Voldemort was thoroughly disgusted by having to resort to physical strength, just like a Muggle._

She glanced briefly at his companion - _it simply had to be Abraxas Malfoy, Draco’s grandfather -_ and the man gaped as he saw her smug expression. _He certainly hadn’t expected someone who was willing to fight Lord Voldemort, had he? Someone who was willing to take down his big bad boss, someone who wasn’t afraid of his Lord!_ She resisted sticking out her tongue at Malfoy, merely raising her chin haughtily. 

Voldemort almost frogmarched her through the crowd, heading for the entrance to Diagon Alley. For the sake of appearances and to throw him off, though _really, secretly,_ she enjoyed riling him up further, forcing him to keep up the use of physical strength, she kept struggling, trying to break free. As he leaned in, hissing in her ear: “No, you don’t, witch! Keep still,” she almost chuckled. 

With her free arm, she even tried to punch him, but it was awkward doing so across her body, but he merely dragged her along, his mouth forming a grim grimace, setting a pace that made it hard to keep up with his long legs. 

“Yes, make that wizard work for it, witch!”

The voice was _much_ too familiar, and her head snapped around. Swaying drunkenly, a young Minerva McGonagall and Jolanda Hooch toasted her as they went by. “That’s it, don’t let those pretty boys get away with sticking it to you and leaving you!” McGonagall hollered, her pointed hat askew, while Madam Hooch snickered: “He’s a damn fine specimen, I give you that, girl! Must’ve been fun, at least!”

And suddenly, Hermione wondered if she had entered an alternative timeline, a parallel universe: Because how else would her two Professors get blitzed at a pub and approve of Voldemort proposing - if that was indeed what he had done? _Though she comforted herself, they wouldn’t know anything about him yet. McGonagall was too young, and Madam Hooch wouldn’t have taught him in school. It didn’t mean anything - they were just drunk as dogs. This was a coincidence, not a proof of a broken timeline, not at all._

Outside in the tiny backyard facing the brick wall of Diagon Alley, he tapped the bricks impatiently, before shoving her through the portal and out in the busy street. 

Showing him her teeth in a grin designed to be infuriating, she wondered if he’d try to use any of his little amusing torture spells on someone who carried his heir. Still she taunted him: “I had no idea you were so attached to using _Muggle_ tactics. Physical force, you know, instead of the more elegant magical solutions. Your upbringing really shines through, doesn’t it? Did you learn this behaviour from your father’s family or in that orphanage?” 

His expression darkened visibly, and he took a quick look around. Seeing as the street was fairly crowded, he pulled her roughly to him, embracing her tightly. He spun them expertly around, Apparating soundlessly away. 

The uncomfortable squeeze of Apparition stopped, and the void spat them out, making her stumble. Landing in a flat - _his, she supposed -_ she caught herself, bracing her hands on his chest. Looking up in his face, it was as if time stretched out, thrumming around them, making the brief moment last far too long. 

Meeting his eyes, drowning in the darkness within - _or maybe she was floating, suspended in the air_ \- all sounds but the beating of their hearts muted, as if they were underwater. 

Her mouth went dry, and suddenly, it was hard to breathe, and simultaneously, he wet his lips. Her hands tightened, bunching the fabric of his robes, and he gripped her hips a fraction harder, like he was about to pull her even tighter against him. 

For a wild moment of insanity, she wondered if he’d kiss her, or maybe even that _she’d_ kiss him, but then she came to her senses, breaking away from him, pushing him back. 

There was a brief flash of disappointment in his eyes, mirroring something strange in herself, before she shook it off, counting it as a momentary confusion caused by the displacement of their bodies through Apparition. 

Voldemort ran a hand through his hair, messing it up like he had just gotten up from bed. Scowling, she tried to rid herself of such silly notions as _Voldemort and bed_ from her head. 

“Sit down,” he gritted out, like he was equally irritated, pointing to a chair, and Hermione shrugged. She might as well be comfortable. _Have a bit of rest before the fight, so to speak._

Sitting down, she took a good look at his flat. The room was obviously Transfigured into a much larger space, and the walls were filled floor-to-ceiling with shelves, groaning with heavy books and ancient-looking scrolls. 

She nodded in appreciation, taking in the amassed knowledge in his flat, the amount of books very much reminiscent of her own flat, though she suspected that the subjects and titles would differ significantly. 

Turning around to face Voldemort, she blinked, as he seemed to be making tea of all things. Astounded to see him act so very _normal_ , she decided to double and triple check anything he offered. _Doing anything else might prove lethal._

To her surprise, his flat was actually quite nice. The floor and the ceiling was a dark, polished wood, with a plush green carpet covering the seating area. Interspersed with the books, there were trinkets and objects that were surely dark, some of them revolving slowly on their axis, suspended in stasis. 

The whole room was lit by floating candles, giving a soft shine, but with enough light for reading, and the tall, arched windows with leaded glass gave only a little light from the street lamps outside, mainly providing a greenish chequered pattern of light on the floor.

She noted he couldn’t be much for entertaining, as the furniture consisted of one large, well-used, comfortable wingback chair, the smaller chair she was occupying, a small table plus a desk filled with stacks of parchment, an ornate, carved chair in front of it. 

Shrugging, she rose to have a better look at his book collection. _It would be interesting, wouldn’t it, to see what someone like him had collected, though it had to be a collection of a most nefarious sort. Nevertheless, it would prove interesting, she was sure._

Looking up from his tea-making, he snarled at her: “Don’t touch my books!” 

“What?” she quipped, turning around, putting her hands to her hips. “I thought you just proposed to me. Your future wife should have access to your possessions, don’t you think?” 

Voldemort snorted with disgust, rolling his eyes. “Proposed… No, I didn’t propose. I _claimed_ you. There’s a world of difference.” 

_Claim her, like she was some sort of free prize? Such a preposterous notion!_ “Then you can go about un-claiming me right now,” she said sternly. 

Xxxx

Voldemort blinked slowly. _She was trying to command him, was she? Well, she certainly would be a challenge, and to be fair, not many were. It would be so much fun, subduing this witch, making her submit to him._

“I’m not going to do any such thing,” he said, much more calmly than he felt. “It’s… an irrevocable process.” 

The witch shook her head condescendingly. “You know as well as I do that very few things are impossible,” she said. “Except…” - _she gave him a too-sweet smile_ \- “attempting truly silly things, like preventing death, of course.” 

Feeling anger swelling, feeling the familiar black terror surging - _to die, to be no one, to become nothing, to be forgotten, to be irrelevant, powerless -_ he took an abrupt step towards her. His voice low and rough, he said: “You should know, I’m an expert at causing death.” 

To his satisfaction, she flinched, though only barely. Flitting through his head - _she’s afraid of me still_ \- the thought was oddly comforting, even in the face of what he had seen in her mind: _His own, humiliating future defeat and death_. _The final, terrible conclusion to a wasted life._

Arching an eyebrow, daring her to challenge him further, it felt like a small victory when she turned back to his books. Her attention seemed to linger on his collection of works in Transfiguration, and he had the odd notion that she was scanning the titles, committing them to memory. 

Finishing the brew, somehow remembering from his foray into her mind that she took her tea with a splash of milk, no sugars, he poured the tea into two sturdy green mugs. Inhaling the fragrance - _a lovely Earl grey from Ceylon* this time, a perfect blend with discrete notes of bergamot -_ he came to stand beside her, handing her one of the mugs. 

Taking a sip of his own black tea, he couldn’t help chuckling at seeing her cast every detection spell known to wizardkind on her tea, peering suspiciously down into her mug. The flashes of her magic felt like a pleasant heat beside him, like low pulses of pleasure, tickling him. _And thus, he knew it had begun._

On some level, the witch seemed to have noticed it too. She shifted on her feet, like she was unconsciously trying to rub her thighs together, and as her tongue darted over her lips, he felt a jolt to his groin, making his cock stir. 

“I haven’t poisoned it, you know,” he said, voice more husky than he had intended, but she only shook her head again. 

“As if I’d ever trust you,” she muttered. Finally coming to the obvious conclusion - _he was right, it_ **_was_ ** _merely tea -_ she took a sip. 

Eyes closing in pleasure, she mumbled: “It’s delicious, I must say.” 

“I aim for perfection,” he said, watching her, eyes following every movement. Her long eyelashes fluttered slightly against her cheeks as she took another sip, and the movement of her slim throat as she swallowed made his pulse speed up. _He remembered how well she had sucked his cock, taking him in, letting him inside her throat, swallowing him down._

He took another hasty sip of his own tea, wondering if the power of the claiming spell would work as rapidly for her, or else he’d soon have to Glamour a very distinct tenting of his robes. 

Opening her eyes, she smiled lazily at him, and _yes - she was affected_. There was a teasing quality in her glance now, not the pure, unadulterated anger from before, and he couldn’t help purring: “So good, isn’t it?” 

She nodded, finished her tea with a deep draught, causing a vivid vision of her swallowing his seed, making his cock throb, rising to full mast. _She’d moan around his head as he erupted, choke on his spend, the convulsing motions of her swallowing would milk him empty, tongue massaging his shaft until he was done._

Swallowing his own tea down hastily, he sent both mugs across the room to the table, leaving their hands free for what was to come. _He wondered if she knew, or maybe she’d be confused by this surge of lust. It was inherent to the spell, creating a compulsion to consummate the claim, unavoidable, forcing both parties to couple whether they wanted to or no, making them willing. As it was, he was sure she wouldn’t have chosen to give in to him again, though one never knew. She was a filthy-minded witch for sure, and he certainly didn’t mind having another go with her._

Her golden-brown eyes were almost blown with desire, mirroring the lust in his own, and he could see her hard nipples poking her shirt, begging to be touched. 

Roughly, he pulled her to him, crashing her mouth to his, and she gasped even as her lips attacked him in a frenzy. They fought for dominance, lips clashing, almost snarling, and he fisted her hair, pulling her head back, leaning down to kiss and bite her throat. 

With a guttural moan, she dragged her fingers through his hair, making his scalp tingle, pulling slightly, before her hands landed on his shoulders, caressing, before clinging to him with a surprisingly hard grip. 

Her skin was silky soft, and he peppered bites and kisses on her neck, throat and the part of her chest bared by her robes, hands running along her sides, thumbing those pretty little nipples, squeezing her waist. With a jolt of surprise, he realized her waist wasn’t as trim as last time, like she had gained a little weight - _his child was growing in there, and she was his, he was staking his claim right now, asserting his right, claiming this brilliant witch as his own possession, revenging himself by forcing her to submit to him._

With a growl, he couldn’t wait anymore, turning her around, raising her robes over her arse. She almost lost her balance, steadying herself on the shelf in front of them, grabbing the back of a large book for support. 

“Watch it,” he muttered, his breath ghosting the shell of her ear, making her shiver, “not all those books are … amenable to be touched.” 

She hastily removed her hands, instead gripping the wooden posts firmly, but she had gotten the gist, arching her back, sticking her arse out to him. 

Hands trembling in need, he pulled down her lacy knickers, opening his fly to pull out his cock, groaning softly as his fist closed around the throbbing shaft. _Would he last even a minute? He had surely never been this hard before, never. This claiming spell certainly was effective, he had to admit._

Kicking her legs apart, he steered his cock to her opening, and _oh Merlin,_ she was literally dripping for him, silky wetness coating the sensitive head of his cock. She moaned as he dragged his cock through her folds a few times, before notching the head in her opening, breaching her body to enter her, causing the spell to ramp up their desire even further, making his eyes roll back, making him feel dazed with pleasure. 

She almost screamed as the full force of the claiming spell hit her, her walls fluttering around the tip of his cock, squeezing him so deliciously. With wide-open eyes and shaking hands, he pushed inside her core with a rough thrust, bottoming, and the witch clamped down around him, encompassing him, massaging his length. 

“Merlin, witch,” he muttered, “you feel so good around me. You’re so soaking wet, so tight. What a filthy, wanton little thing you are, presenting yourself to be fucked by Lord Voldemort, to be claimed. You’re mine, you know that? Now, you’re mine, _mine_ , **_mine_**!” 

She moaned, bucking back into him, her tight hold on his cock sucking him back in at every thrust, but still she muttered: “Touch my clit, you bastard, I’m no more yours than you are mine. “ 

He grinned at her rebellious streak, though he obeyed, moving one hand down to her hard aching little nub, rubbing her roughly. 

“At least you think so,” he taunted, snapping his hips, feeling the telltale, familiar tingle start somewhere high up, moving down towards his cock. 

“Ah,” she grunted at a particular hard thrust, “ah, you’re such an evil incarnate, and, oh Lord, please, do it harder, more, again!” 

For a brief while, there was only the wet, smacking sounds of their bodies clashing, both of them breathing hard, the desire building to a crest as he worked her hole, splitting her open with rough, jerky movements, fingers gliding through her wet folds, rubbing the small nub faster. His other hand grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, making her arch her back even more. 

With a final flick of his fingers, she wailed, convulsing around him: ”I’m coming, oh Lord, I’m coming for _you_!” 

“You’re mine,” he snarled, feeling his cock swell, starting to pulse in her tight, fluttering sheath, “Say it!” 

“I’m yours,” she whined, riding her orgasm mindlessly, clamping down on him, trembling around him, “I’m yours, and you - _say it_! You say it too!” 

Her power tickled him, swirling around him in a lustful, heated haze, making his mind fuzzy. With a grunt, he came, spurting all he had inside her, bucking into her with jerking movements, filling her up with his spend, and to his shock, he growled out with a final thrust in her wet hole: “I’m yours too!” 

Abruptly, the air filled with a shimmering golden light, and there was a musical, tinkling sound. It manifested into identical golden circles coming to life around their ring fingers, flashing up like searing fire, before settling on their skin like a golden bond, turning into solid, golden rings with a suddenness that made them blink. 

Both of them gasped, raising their hands to stare for a long moment, before simultaneously, they both shuddered. 

Shocked, he pulled out of her, leading a wet trail of fluids down her thighs. _He had messed up - he had somehow made this a two-way bond. This wasn’t supposed to happen!_

Turning around to face him, her face flushed and glowing from their coupling, she said, voice low and dangerous: “What the absolute fuck?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. *grins*
> 
> I don't know why, but I like the idea of McGonagall and Hooch being drinking buddies.
> 
> *I double-checked: Sri Lanka changed its name from Ceylon in 1972, so ... Voldemort in 1969 would refer to it as Ceylon.


	4. Swivel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then she had the dubious joy of seeing Voldemort’s acting abilities coming to full play. 
> 
> He looked down, like he was ashamed, before raising his head, looking at the judges with a heartbroken expression on his face: “I fell in love,” he said simply, with a small catch in his voice, looking for all the world like a man telling the truth.  
> \---
> 
> Or: Hermione Granger takes Voldemort to court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this story! 
> 
> Let the fighting commence... ;-)

_She couldn’t_ **_believe_ ** _it._

There must have been some kind of heavy compulsion in the spell to make her accede to sex with Lord Voldemort - again. _For Merlin’s sake, they had apparently consummated a marriage by the inexplicable appearance of those golden rings?_

Voldemort blinked slowly, turning his hand over, looking at the golden band around his finger, examining it, a look of utter surprise on his face. He prodded at it with the index finger of his right hand, and she couldn’t help thinking: Those were long, strong and elegant fingers, as if he’d be perfectly suited for playing the piano - _or her body._

Furrowing her brow, she took a small step back. _No more of that, for sure!_ Voldemort had tricked her into this, the spell had momentarily taken away her free will, but now, she was back in control. The man in front of her was still handsome, but he also wasn’t worth anything more than her despisal, nothing else. _And now, she was apparently married to him._ Hermione couldn’t help sighing, shifting her feet, sinking deeper into the plush green carpet. 

_Her only consolation was that he looked as shocked as her, because… she had thwarted him too, hadn’t she? As soon as she had understood what had happened, deep in the haze of her orgasm, she had set all her strength, pouring all of her magic into making him promise the same thing, securing some measure of equality to this, though she had never thought she’d do her best to magically bind Voldemort to her. And now he was bound to her, through a magical vow none of them really wanted._

He was thinking fast on his feet, she had to give him that, because his shock and surprise slowly morphed into a triumphant grin: “What do you think, Mrs. …uh, Riddle?” 

The small hesitation told her, he wasn’t quite sure how to address her. _Maybe he hadn’t formally changed his name to Voldemort. Maybe she wouldn’t know until she saw the registration papers. Maybe she’d end up as Mrs. Voldemort, or worse: as Lady Voldemort._ With a shudder of revulsion, she shook her head. 

“I’m dissolving this first thing,” she said firmly. The slow, sticky trickle of his seed distracted her momentarily, and absently, she waved a _Tergeo_ at herself, cleaning up, deliberately foregoing to extend the favour to him. 

“You can’t,” he said with an insufferable smirk, the glistening wetness suddenly, silently disappearing from his now limp member, before he tucked himself in. “If you return to your future, _everyone_ will learn that you’re married to me.” 

Huffing, she muttered: “As if. No, I’m dissolving this, null and void, and I’m going to personally burn any documents pertaining to this. No one will know.” 

Voldemort’s dark eyes glittered, like he thought this was _fun_ : “No, you can’t. This is no ordinary marriage. It’s a magical claim, and it can’t be dissolved. We’re bound,” he stated with satisfaction. “And you, you’ll be reviled and your reputation will be destroyed in your future. How will people react to having Lord Voldemort’s wife for Minister? Not so well, huh?” 

“And you’ll still be _dead_!” she spat, but then he laughed, shaking his head. He looked inordinately pleased, she thought, or maybe it was just how he looked after a good shag. _Much too handsome, those glittering dark eyes, tousled hair and flushed cheeks, a small smile on his perfect lips. Yes, he was an arse - a real devil._

Leaning in, pointing a long finger in her face, he stated: “I’m going to take my chance at wrecking your precious future, Mrs. Riddle.” 

“Don’t call me that!” she spat, batting his hand aside. 

Voldemort grinned, rocking on his feet as he leaned back. “Such a lovely little wife you’ll be for as long as you stay in my time. You do realize I expect you to spread your legs for me, every night? I know what a hot-blooded little thing you are, and you will beg for it again...” 

**_SMACK!_ **

The sound rang out in the room, and she came to realize she had _slapped_ Voldemort, acting on her gut reaction more than by a conscious decision. 

Wide-eyed, he touched the reddening mark on his skin, rubbing his cheek carefully, before muttering: “You’re a right hellion, aren’t you?” 

To her slight relief, he seemed to be too shocked to do anything to retaliate, like he had never imagined someone would hit him. _He had no plan for this, apparently, but she had to get away before he could form a plan, before he could gather his senses enough to attack her._

“If I’m a hellion, it’s nothing more than _you_ deserve!” Her voice was low and gritty, and she took a step back, Apparating away. 

It was only later that she understood she must have gone straight through his Anti-Apparition wards. 

Xxxx

Voldemort had robbed her of her pub dinner, and the pangs of pregnancy hunger gnawed at her, making her feel lightheaded and faintly nauseous. Her baby demanded that her body be fed frequent food and to get regular sleep, or else she ended up as a tired, nervous wreck. Earlier in the pregnancy, she had tried going on as before with work taking precedence over her other bodily needs, but it wasn’t possible. 

Then again, it wasn’t only **her** child. With a growing sense of unease, she allowed herself to come to terms with the fact that her baby had a father. _Not just a fading memory of a hot, intelligent wizard, someone unknown she wouldn’t have to bother with, but a real man, someone living and breathing, with his own designs on the future. Someone evil, someone powerful, someone she hated with a passion. For her, the baby had been an accident, but to him, it was some sort of plan._

Sitting on her yellow, faded bedspread, resting her back against propped up pillows, she shuddered weakly. Shaking her head, she continued to shovel dry toast into her mouth, washing it down with tea to stave off her hunger. _Safe to say, her revenge trip to the past had gone down the drain like a basilisk in a pipe. Ending up married to Voldemort was not an option, not in this time, and certainly not in the future. Like he had said, it would not go down well if anyone discovered she had gotten herself married to him. She’d lose all support, no one would vote for her then, she’d never be Minister, not to mention the rather heavy personal cost of being tied to the most evil wizard in Britain. People would … shun ... her, if not outright trying to kill her._

Crumbs fell down on her bed, the stack of toast on her plate quickly disappearing, and she waved the crumbs absently away with a flick of her finger. Plan A was definitely to dissolve this sham of a bond, but …. she had to see about a plan B for this. _She would have to take Voldemort more seriously as an opponent. Restrain him, make him harmless, if that was even possible. At the very least, she would make him less … dangerous._

Xxxx 

  
  


“My Lady,” Abraxas Malfoy muttered reverently, making a small, elegant bow. 

Hermione glared at him, before levelling her stare at the tall man standing beside the blonde. Voldemort nodded to her, having brought his follower to be his lawyer, but she didn’t deign him with anything resembling a greeting. 

Malfoy seemed to think she’d respond to his Lord, and when she didn’t, his blue eyes widened, like he was shocked by such impoliteness. 

After having had her tea in bed the other night, she had filed for a divorce, demanding a hearing the very next day. That, of course, hadn’t happened, but a delay of one day was a wild success, considering how slowly the Ministry’s bureaucracy normally worked. _Then again, her request was unusual, and probably excited the officials more than the usual run-of-the-mill divorces._ Besides, the delay had given her time to prepare, burrowing through all the marriage laws from the different ages. The ritual Voldemort had used belonged to a fairly obscure law, mainly used by Pure-bloods wizards forcing themselves on unwilling maidens in the past. At least there were no recent cases recorded, and she prided herself on her research abilites. _She had done a thorough job on this._

The three judges filed in, passing them with red robes rustling, and before following them inside, she replied: “Um, Mr. … _Malfoy_ ,” putting all the disdain in the world in her voice. _Like the name itself was something vile, something filthy, something only worth her displeasure. Though she wasn’t a lawyer, she knew more than most people about magical law, and she was sure Malfoy would fit nicely in the category of ‘most people’. Yes, she was confident she’d literally trample him in court._

Moving past the two wizards, her heels clicking on the stone floor of the Ministry, she settled in place on the front row of the small courtroom. No one would be present except her, Voldemort, Malfoy and the three judges of the Family Court and a court reporter, taking the minutes. _She had requested the trial being held in secret, citing the need for discretion._

“Come forward, Mrs… Riddle and Mr. Riddle,” the head judge said kindly. He was an old wizard, tufts of white hair sticking out beneath his hat, and the red robes couldn’t hide his emaciated frame. “At first, we’ll do a test on the validity of the bond. This happened ... recently, yes?” 

Malfoy said glibly: “Two nights ago, my Lord*.” 

The three judges nodded, and the reporter scribbled down his answer on top of a long roll of parchment. 

One of the other judges stepped forward, a small, wiry witch with tiny, round glasses perched on her nose. Briskly, she said: “Present wands, please.” 

Mutely, Hermione rose, extending her wand, and Voldemort did the same. She almost winced as her wand was taken, placed for safe-keeping, and the grimace flickering over Voldemort’s face told her he didn’t like it much either. _Though she knew, it was merely standard procedure in the Family Court. Sometimes emotion ran too high for witches and wizards to behave themselves. Not that this measure would stop Voldemort or herself, if it came to blows. She was quite adept at wandless magic, and he, of course, would be an expert._

The chamber was small and round, like a miniature of the full chamber for the Wizengamot, though there wasn’t room for tiered stands. There were only two rows of seats around a small, circular space in the middle of the room, where she now stood beside Voldemort. Malfoy lounged on the second row, and would be seated right behind Voldemort, ready to whisper in his ear. 

The third judge, a younger man with dark hair, walked up to them, drawling: “Please do not move as I examine the bond. It will not be painful, but it might tickle.” 

He swung his wand in a great arch, encompassing both of them, and _sweet Merlin!_

He had been right. It tickled, like smooth fingertips had access to her entire body, her mind and her magic, creating soft pattering movements, drawing out a guffaw of laughter. She couldn’t help another whining gasp, fighting to stand still, desperately forcing herself to not laugh helplessly, wanting nothing more than to squirm and escape this light form of torture. To her left, Voldemort’s mouth was twitching, like he wanted to laugh too, and she wasn’t sure it was due to the sensation _he’d_ be experiencing too, or if he was laughing at her predicament. 

Frowning, she became even more determined to stay still, showing dignity, not squirming like a silly schoolgirl. _Thankfully, it was over quickly._

“It’s a valid and consummated bond,” the judge declared. 

As he turned away, she thought she spotted a small wink directed to Malfoy, like a secret communication. 

Furrowing her brow, she wondered: _was it possible that Voldemort and his cronies have bought a judge? She wouldn’t put it past them, and if so, then…_

Instead, she straightened, giving each of the judges a small, polite nod. “My Lords and my Lady,” she began, “I didn’t quite catch your names...” 

“Oh,” the small witch said, “I’m Rosemary Brisard, this is judge Mordecai Lothsmeade, and this,” she indicated the youngest man, “is judge Augustus Rookwood.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. _They hadn’t bought a judge, they had placed one of their own Death Eaters as one instead! Oh, this would be a battle. The Family Court ruled by a majority vote, so she had to convince the two others to dissolve the bond._

Voldemort smirked at her, rocking confidently on his heels, and she was sure, his grin was _designed_ to be infuriating. 

_But she was a professional, through and through._ Therefore, she smiled politely, saying: “Thank you, my Lady. May I return to my seat?” 

“By all means!” the elderly Lothsmeade exclaimed, “please take a seat, Mrs. Riddle. You too, of course, Mr. Riddle.” 

Hearing them referred to as a married couple annoyed her more than she had expected, and her smile suddenly felt forced. 

Sitting down, she smoothed her Transfigured robe over her knees, letting the charcoal silk flow over her legs. Voldemort was dressed in his usual black, looking very proper, while Abraxas Malfoy seemed to be in a perpetual state of prim, pristine black and white dress robes. 

“So, Mrs. … Riddle,” Brisard said kindly, “you’d like to dissolve this bond to Mr. Riddle. Would you be so kind as to tell us why?” 

“I had no intention of marrying this man,” she explained, making the two elderly judges widen their eyes. “The bond was forced upon me without my consent, and I would rather not be burdened with such a bond.” 

“If I may say so,” Malfoy interrupted, “my client only wants what is best for their child. He feels that raising a child outside the bonds of matrimony is inadvisable, and maintains that he feels the need to take responsibility for the result of his … ah… actions.” 

“There is a child?” Both Lothsmeade and Brisard gasped in unison, while Rookwood just shook his head, like he merely tutted at this small scandal. 

“Yes,” she said calmly, having anticipated the moral outrage. “However, I still have my free will, and I think it is … _inadvisable_ … as the other party said, to force a child to be raised in a loveless environment, with a mother and father who - and I cannot stress this enough - _will never get along.”_

“And yet,” Malfoy said almost triumphantly, “this bond is consummated. The bonding happened two nights ago, and the consummation happened - of course - after the fact. Thus, this idea that our couple will not get along seems… both untrue and … if I may suggest, a little fickle. This, a child’s future, is a too serious matter to be left to a witch in a _delicate_ state.” 

Hermione took a deep breath to calm herself, when Voldemort turned to her, faking large, puppy-dog eyes: “Why won’t you let me take care of you, love?” 

Fury shot through her, but she had seen their game. _They wanted to prove her as hormonal and imbalanced, wouldn’t they? She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of proving them right, though she wanted nothing more than to tear the room to pieces with her bare hands._

“Oh, if you hadn’t tricked me into pregnancy, and hadn’t forced me to a bond, I might have,” she said sweetly, batting her eyelashes at Voldemort in a ridiculous way, before turning to the judges, turning on her best, beseeching expression, even letting her bottom lip quiver a little. 

“My Lady, my Lords, I implore you: This man took advantage of me, and he forced this pregnancy on me when we first met by secretly applying a Fertility Enhancement. Then he forced me into this bond, when I sought him out to complain about the state he had left me in. I ask you, will a wizard willing to go to _such_ lengths be a good father, a good husband? Or will this lead me into pure enslavement to a domineering, powerful wizard who has no regards for my well-being and our child’s safety?” 

“I protest such slander of my client’s character!” Malfoy shouted, but Brisard nodded to her words, peering sharply at Voldemort. 

“I would like to hear Mr. Riddle’s explanation for this,” she said, leaning forward on her desk. 

And then she had the dubious joy of seeing Voldemort’s acting abilities coming to full play. 

He looked down, like he was ashamed, before raising his head with a heartbroken expression: “I fell in love,” he said simply, with a small catch in his voice, looking for all the world like a man telling the truth. 

“This beautiful, intelligent witch bewitched me, enchanted me like no one has ever done. I think my lawyer, who is also my longtime _friend,_ can attest to the fact that I’ve never been enamoured before. I knew I needed her as my wife, my constant companion, and the only way such a fiercely independent, _wonderful_ witch would give herself to me, was by making her pregnant. The bond is, as Mr. Malfoy said, a way for me to ensure that my child is raised with all the loving respect a father can give his child. I realize Mrs. Riddle wasn’t given much of a choice in this, but I had absolutely no reason - from, erm, our _previous_ encounter - to suspect that she harboured such a dislike for me.” 

Hermione couldn’t help it, she rolled her eyes at this absolute drivel. _Though, he was obviously willing to lie through his teeth, and if she hadn’t known who or what he was, she would have believed him too. He was_ **_that_ ** _good, and now the judges looked sympathetic. No, this wouldn’t do!_

“Nevertheless,” she said, interrupting his speech, “Mr. Riddle afforded me no choice in our encounters. I must point out, though it’s a _delicate_ matter, that the spell he used, the Act of 1632, is designed to force consummation. This was _not_ a choice I could make. The very Act is intended to strip a witch of her willpower and choice, and is thus a vile compulsion spell. To my knowledge, this quickly fell out of use.” 

“The Act of 1632? Are you sure?” Lothsmeade whispered, sending the two other judges a meaningful glance. 

“Yes, I’m absolutely sure,” she said, feeling so very sure of her victory. _Because this was a proof of Voldemort being willing to go to extremes, wasn’t it? Using an obscure bonding spell with obvious malicious intent would not go down well with any judge, being it 1969 or later._

The reactions of Brisard and Lothsmeade were sudden and brief, both of them sucking in a breath, but then they both stared sternly at Voldemort, like they thought him to be some kind of a criminal. 

Malfoy cleared his throat, and she shot him a crushing glance. _She couldn’t help wondering if any of his foremothers had been forced unwillingly into marriage by this spell. This was just the thing people like the Malfoys would enjoy._

Xxxx

Abraxas faltered under her glare, and that little pixie who was supposed to be his… _wife_ … trampled right over his follower, continuing: 

“Moreover,” she said with a clearly forced civility, “as this spell had fallen out of use centuries ago, I was helpless to counter this, having no knowledge of such obscure, ancient and dark compulsion spells. I ask you, is it fair that a wizard can force a witch into marriage? Haven’t the world changed since 1632, and shouldn’t witches be allowed to choose their life’s companion?” 

“There’s that,” Brisard said, looking sadly at her fellow judges. “Forcing someone into marriage is usually a thing of the past. Still, we have a problem.” 

“A problem?” the witch said, brows furrowing, and at that, he couldn’t help the glimmer of triumph flitting over his features. Her pretty, brown eyes widened, and he knew, _he fucking knew it,_ she had just realized she lost this round. _The surge of victory felt so overwhelming, and he almost crowed with delight, having conquered the witch in court too, never mind the humiliating defeat where she had made him promise himself to her too, twisting the spell._

“Yes,” Augustus Rookwood said, looking serious, though a faint amusement played in his eyes, getting ready to land the final blow: “This bond _cannot_ be undone. It has been tried before, but to no avail. _You_ wouldn’t know, Mrs. Riddle, because those cases are also kept secret from public scrutiny to protect the family reputations. No one has ever wanted to shame their family so as to bring such a trial to the public eye.” 

“Agreed,” Brisard chimed in, looking at his wife - _she was definitely his wife now, though the word ‘wife’ still sounded so strange in relation to himself_ \- with pity. “We cannot dissolve this for you, it’s permanent. However, you are absolutely right. This spell is a thing of the past, and I will endeavour to make it illegal from now on. Those steps should have been taken long ago, but unfortunately, they weren’t due to the influence of … _some_ … families.” 

Brisard looked pointedly at Abraxas, who looked thoroughly unconcerned, inspecting his cuticles for some imaginary dirt. Voldemort couldn’t help being amused. _The Malfoy men had always preferred this spell for marriage, claiming that it was the best way to ensure a marriage to the right girl. The nicer ones had seduced witches before applying the spell, while the not-so-nice ones had merely committed rape. Voldemort still remembered how Abraxas’ own wife had fought the enhancement. Needless to say, there was a reason why Abraxas was raising his son on his own, as his wife had secretly moved to France shortly after the birth. The Malfoys were experts to keep things under wraps. No one would hear about Hermione Riddle’s struggle to rid herself of this bond either._

Looking uncomfortable, Brisard continued, a slight rasp in her dry voice: “But we cannot make a difference for you, Mrs. Riddle. You will have to remain bonded to Mr. Riddle, though I understand this is not what you want. Still, rest assured, we’ll make the necessary changes in the laws, making sure this spell becomes illegal. No one will ever suffer this again. You will be the last one.” 

His little wife gritted her teeth so hard, he could almost hear it. Her shoulders slumped, and Voldemort barely kept his victory grin off his face, remembering to still play the role as a lovesick husband. 

_He had won, and now her future would be destroyed. She couldn’t possibly go back, hoping to return to her political career, being married to him. No, she’d have to wreck the future too, taking a chance on chaos. And then he wouldn’t have to spend years as a wraith, before ending up dead, killed by a boy not yet out of school._

Turning to Voldemort, Lothsmeade said sternly: “And you, young man, will treat your wife with due respect. I don’t want to see the two of you back in court because you’ve overstepped, you hear me? Remember, your wife doesn’t want this.” 

Forcing a contrite expression on his face, he said with downcast eyes: “My Lord, for sure. I want nothing more than her happiness.” _Or rather, her ruin and destruction,_ he added privately to himself. 

“See to it,” Lothsmeade sniffed. Augustus was a professional, through and through, and kept quiet, though there was a small wry twist to his mouth, knowing that his Lord was lying out of his teeth. 

“If I may offer advice,” Brisard said with a sigh, still looking at his … _wife_ … with pity: “You don’t have to live together. People do that, you know, live separately. It’s often the best solution.” 

His wife looked up, giving the judge a small smile, and the hard, flinty look in her eyes unsettled him thoroughly. _This wasn’t the face of someone defeated, was it? This witch wasn’t done yet, and she most certainly didn’t believe she had lost._

“Thank you,” she muttered, “I’ll have to think about my future. This was … not what I wanted at all.” 

Voldemort stepped forward, taking her arm to tuck underneath his own, and said solicitously: “Darling, allow me to buy you lunch. You must be hungry.” 

Her eyes were deep and dark, and he felt like he was being weighed on a scale, an impossible, unknown scale he’d never comprehend, before she nodded. “Very well.” 

Against him, her body felt soft and warm, _comfortable,_ and so small compared to himself. _He had enjoyed being so much bigger than her when he fucked her, because he could easily control her body. Usually, he could easily dominate anyone with his magic too, but this witch - well, he’d have to work for it, but he was confident he’d best her. Eventually._

Right now, she was pretending to be complacent, and he nodded to Malfoy. “Thank you,” he said politely, though this service was nothing but what he expected from his followers. Shaking hands with the judges, winking at Augustus, he left the courtroom, his wife pliant by his side. 

As soon as the door closed behind them, she wrenched herself free, and her eyes flashed, all that pent-up anger coming to play. Voldemort raised an eyebrow, but to his surprise, the fierce rage in her eyes made something ignite in his lower belly. _She was … beautiful, wasn’t she? So angry, so powerful and so dangerous. A challenge, when no one else was. Yes, he’d like to chase her down, pin her underneath him, making her scream for him as he took her. She would beg for him again, beg for her Lord to take her, coming on his cock again, and…_

Voldemort took a deep breath, slowly licking his lips as his eyes wandered over her pretty face, her slim throat and down to what little pale skin he could see over the top of her modestly cut robes. _The enticing swell of her breasts made him think filthy thoughts of how he’d like to push them together, slot his cock between them, pumping until…_

Hermione Riddle’s eyes narrowed, and she took a step closer, hissing: “I don’t know _what_ you were thinking right now, but I can tell you this: It will _never_ come to pass.” 

“Oh, won’t it?” he asked silkily, feeling the electrifying pleasure as blood rushed to his groin, making him half-hard. 

“In your dreams!” she snarled, trying to bat him away as he once again took her arm, pulling her close to him. 

As he hauled her along, brushing by harried-looking Ministry officials in the narrow corridor, he whispered to her, voice low and rough: “I tend to make my dreams reality.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what's plan B? ;-) 
> 
> *I had to check this: The way to address a judge in Britain would be quite diverse depending on the type of court. Let’s just say this is a Higher Court, and thus, it’s my Lord/my Lady.

**Author's Note:**

> TBC?


End file.
